Reputation(107)

But they didn’t listen to me. My paranoia spiraled. I went from thinking they’d sort out the mistake to being certain that I was never going to see my baby again. This was how far Ollie was going to go to ruin my life. I cried loudly, hideously, but no one opened my door.

After what seemed like hours, a door swung open. I cringed, expecting more officers barging in with handcuffs, ready to haul me off to jail or court or the hospital. When I saw a female officer and a plainclothes woman, I lifted my head a little. Then I realized the woman was holding my child in her arms. I let out a relieved, broken little bleat, jumping to my feet and stretching my arms out for my child. “We’re sorry,” the officer said, her voice full of genuine regret. She handed the baby over. “Mrs. Apatrea, we are so, so sorry we put you through this.”

I didn’t ask how they’d figured out what had happened. I didn’t care. I nuzzled Freddie, sobbing, grateful. After a moment, the officer said that they had Ollie in custody for assault. But I wouldn’t really grasp what had happened until much later.

Now my phone dings. I muffle it, not wanting to wake the baby, and glance at the screen. It’s a reminder of an upcoming appointment tomorrow: Ollie, lawyer’s office. We’re meeting on neutral territory to sign the divorce papers. It certainly wasn’t difficult to schedule: Ollie was fired from his police position almost immediately after that showdown with Willa Manning. There are also charges against him that I filed—one for domestic assault, and another for lying to Child Protective Services and the state troopers. I don’t think he’s going to get that promotion anytime soon. I won’t let him back in the house; rumor has it he’s living with his mother on the other side of the city. He calls me regularly, begging me to take him back. Says he screwed up, says he forgives me for what happened with Greg. Says he misses Freddie. Still considers him his child.

What’s crazy is that these phone messages tug at my heartstrings. But then I think about those last few days we were together. The fear I felt. And the betrayal, too—I had been so, so certain that Ollie, as impulsive and hotheaded as he could be at work, would never, ever be that way around me. For him to flip, for him to change—albeit provoked by my betrayal—it made me lose faith in almost everything. So I can’t take Ollie back.

I’ve explained all of this to detectives and a new therapist. They said that I can file a restraining order that will legally forbid Ollie from coming within a certain distance of me—and Freddie. But I know how flimsy those things can be. I know that if you want to violate an order, not much is stopping you.

It’s why, then, I have a plan.

I flip on the radio, wanting to catch the news before I switch over to the nursery rhyme songs I’ve downloaded for Freddie. I find a local station, and someone is just finishing the weather report. Then, another anchor announces a new story: “Aldrich University president and self-confessed murderer is dead at sixty-nine.”

A ball clogs my throat. I turn up the volume.

“Alfred Manning, the president of Aldrich University and the murderer of Greg Strasser, is dead from complications with pancreatic cancer,” the voice goes on. “Manning was undergoing hushed treatments for the disease at an Allegheny Hospital branch thirty miles outside of town. He fell gravely ill shortly after the murder weapon was found on the premises of his daughter’s home. He regained consciousness after his medical episode and offered a full confession. Mr. Manning leaves behind a tarnished legacy not only with the murder of his son-in-law but also of his beloved school, which was rife with scandals that came out in the famous Aldrich hack.”

I feel a wave of sadness. I’ve never met Alfred Manning, despite his being Greg’s father-in-law. In news clips, though, he always seemed like such a nice man. So gentle. I remember reading how he’d lost his wife suddenly, how hard that must have been. But I guess appearances can be deceiving.

I glance at Freddie in the back seat. “Okay, enough of that.” And in seconds, we’re listening to “Baa, Baa, Black Sheep,” his favorite. The sun streams in through the windows. We wind through the old brick streets toward the park. I’m going to miss this neighborhood, I think, glancing around at the handsome brownstones. I’m going to miss Pittsburgh in general.

But it’s almost time, and I am ready. A U-Haul will be here tomorrow night to pack up the simple furniture like Freddie’s crib, my bed, a table. The U-Haul I’ve arranged is the kind that will hitch to my SUV; I’ll be like a turtle, carrying my whole house around wherever I go. I’m not sure where we will go yet. Somewhere I won’t easily be found. I’ve made a few contacts that will get me the right paperwork to change my name, make my details untraceable, even online. Once your life is threatened, the world seems to change shape. You do what you have to do. Certain choices suddenly become easy. And this is one of them.

“Ba!” Freddie exclaims from the back seat, and a smile spreads across my face.

“Ba!” I say back, turning the wheel. “We have such a fun day planned, boo! The park . . . the aviary . . . but just a quick stop first, okay?”

I have to rely on GPS in Blue Hill; despite having worked there, I never had much chance to drive through its back streets. I pass the hospital first, though I barely glance at it before driving by. It doesn’t bother me that I’ll be giving notice over the phone; there’s no one I really want to say goodbye to in person. Next, I drive by the museum where the benefit took place. It seems like a million years ago that I was there. I try to remember the fears that had gripped me that night. All the things I was trying to hold on to. All the things that had now changed.